


Test

by Isagel



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Breathplay, Collars, Consensual Slavery, Dominance/submission, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-26
Updated: 2011-04-26
Packaged: 2017-10-18 17:16:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/191300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Isagel/pseuds/Isagel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The test is in coming back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Test

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt left by dodificus.

"I will not be... _kept_ ," Arthur says, the morning after, his tone piercing the word with a stab of contempt. "I have my own life. I will come as I wish and leave as I wish and handle my own affairs without interference from you."

Saito inclines his head a fraction, indicating agreement.

"Of course," he says, as though he expected nothing less.

There is a pause, the heat of the tea in Arthur's bowl seeping through the antique _raku_ ceramic into his fingers.

Saito raises his eyes.

"But when you are here," he says, "you are mine."

It's not a question.

Arthur holds his gaze, feels the weight and meaning of the words spread and settle in his blood.

"When I'm here," he confirms, "I belong to you."

It's different, saying it in the clear light of day, fully dressed in all the layers of his Versace suit, sitting here at the table, calm and civilized as though there were no bruises underneath. As though last night he hadn't crawled like a dog across the floor to receive them.

Saito smiles, a thin curl of his lips, there and gone again.

"Then, Mr. Arthur," he says, "I believe we have an understanding. I shall send for the driver to take you to the airport."

  


* * *

  


With one thing and another and a rather unfortunate run-in with the fraud division of the Italian police, it's three months before Arthur sets foot in Saito's Tokyo penthouse again.

Though, perhaps, he thinks, as the maid takes his coat and shows him into the empty study, the Italian police are less responsible for the delay than his own stubbornness. His need to make certain that he could stay away.

He trails his fingertips along the mahogany edge of Saito's desk, his hands restless in waiting. Outside the window, the city is a jagged silhouette of skyscrapers, rising shapes dotted with squares of light. He could still leave.

But, of course, the real test is in coming back.

“I was told you entered the country three days ago,” Saito says from the open doorway behind him. It's not reproach, or even curiosity, merely an observation.

Arthur used a Russian passport at the airport, one of Eames's finest, but he isn't surprised. The reach of Saito's power, the pull of it, is, after all, why he's here.

He turns, hands in his pockets; relaxed, collected. His heart is beating very fast.

“I had other business to take care of,” he says.

They both know that's a lie, that he spent the last three days playing the tourist while he gathered his courage, but Saito lets it pass. Simply stands there, watching him.

Arthur watches in turn, controlling the urge to lower his gaze. That moment will come.

It is late, and Saito is dressed in black pajama bottoms under a matching silk robe. His feet are bare, but his hair is in perfect order; Arthur can't tell whether he's been called from his bed or not. Beneath his neck, the fabric of the belted robe is parted to reveal a v of smooth chest, skin that is honey-colored in the warm light from the desk lamp. Arthur thinks about burying his face there, about dragging his lips along the contours of Saito's sternum, tasting clean sweat on his tongue. Thinks about how far he is from having permission, what permission will take.

His cock is suddenly heavy in his pants.

“How long will you stay?” Saito asks.

Arthur shrugs, makes his voice casual.

“I have to leave for a job on the twenty-third.”

“Thirteen days,” Saito says. He hasn't moved yet, not even entered the room. “Do you know what I could do to you in thirteen days?”

Not a threat. An honest question.

“Yes,” Arthur says. _The test is in coming back._ “Yes, I know.”

“Then you are very foolish,” Saito says, and he's crossing the threshold, moving not towards Arthur, but to the other side of his desk. “Or in your heart, you are very certain.” He doesn't wait for Arthur to comment, and Arthur isn't sure what he would have said, anyway. “I have something for you,” he continues, and pulls something from a drawer, slides it across the desk towards Arthur.

It's a square black box, flat like a jewelery case.

Arthur raises an eyebrow at Saito. Saito nods. Arthur reaches out and opens the case.

Inside, resting like a necklace in a circular indentation, is a collar.

He doesn't know what he was expecting, but if the case suggested gold or precious gems, it was misleading. The collar is so simple as to almost be primitive. Made of rope, expertly braided and knotted into a length that he is sure is the exact circumference of his neck; no buckles or clasps, only loose ends to be tied together in place. The hemp is dyed a deep, dark red – like Zinfandel or drying blood. In the middle, like a centerpiece, there is a larger, thicker knot; he can feel how it would settle like a weight in the hollow of his throat.

It's brutally straightforward. Exquisite.

It's terror and rage, how much he wants it.

“Acceptable?” Saito asks. There is a twist of amusement in his voice.

“Yes,” Arthur says. It's hard to lift his eyes to Saito's face. He does it anyway. “But you should know I wouldn't be here, otherwise.”

Saito smiles, rueful.

“It doesn't hurt to make sure.” A pause. Then: “Kneel for me.”

Arthur folds as though someone had kicked his legs out from under him.

He thinks _Finally_ , and the thought burns like the tear of a bullet, all the way through.

Saito comes to him, sits back against the desk in front of him, feet parted to bracket his knees. He is loose and easy, taking Arthur's obedience as though it's a given, and Arthur's back is as straight as he can make it, his eyes dead ahead, not moving.

Saito reaches out, begins to undo the knot in Arthur's tie with steady fingers. They're both so quiet that Arthur can hear the slide of silk through silk. He tilts his chin up, giving access. Saito rolls up the tie, puts it away on the desk. Unhurried. Then he undoes Arthur's shirt – the top few buttons, nothing more. When the backs of his fingers brush skin, Arthur's breath hitches, obvious.

“Don't rush, Arthur,” Saito says, his finger hooked around the uppermost button still undone, a pull light enough to be a tease. “You've given me thirteen days to undress you. Perhaps even you do not have that many layers.”

He straightens, picks the collar from the open case. Steps around Arthur to stand behind him.

The collar comes around Arthur's throat, the rope so soft as it tightens, settles into place.

“Have you ever been deep enough that there is no structure?” Saito says, and his hands are at the back of Arthur's neck, tying the last knot. When it's done, his fingers slip inside, into the small space between rope and skin, knuckles against Arthur's nape. “Do you want me to own that part of you, too?”

Arthur closes his eyes, breathes in, breathes out. The rope moves with his body, rising, falling.

“You would have to find it, first,” he says. Arrogant.

Saito's hand closes on the rope, and twists, cinching it tight. Pulling back.

The thick knot at the hollow of Arthur's throat presses in against his windpipe, suddenly hard, punishing. With enough force, that single point of pressure could crush his larynx. It wouldn't take much more than this.

He knows eight different methods to break this hold. Out of those, three are workable, given the specifics of their heights and weights, the way their bodies are balanced. Within a millisecond of the rope pulling taut, he has decided which one would be most effective.

A second goes by. Two.

He can't breathe.

He is so hard he could lay a hand over his cock and come at the first touch, just like this. If Saito asked it.

The rope tightens, a little bit more.

He does nothing, won't do anything.

There is a flicker of blackness behind his eyelids.

Saito lets him go, so suddenly he has to catch himself not to fall forward, panting, palm against the wooden floor. A hand strokes through his hair, down his neck, over the knots that hold the collar. Soft, soft, soft. Possessive.

There will be bruises. He's going to love them when he sees them in the mirror.

He is chattel.

“You wouldn't be here,” Saito says, “if you didn't know I will.”

The test is in coming back. The test is in always being able to walk away again, every time.

Arthur bends his neck under Saito's hand, arcing into it.

There are thirteen days until he has to think about that.


End file.
